Urgency
by terrified
Summary: A (crazy) one-shot. Sherlock cannot explain it, but finds himself needing to find Molly. A random, bizarre take on meeting Molly again, two years after Sherlock had fallen from the top of Bart's.


_**A/N:** I am sleepy, listening to Diana Vickers' "Boy in Paris" on loop and have churned out this weird, almost crack-y Sherlolly fic. It's all sorts of crazy, but hey, love is all sorts of crazy too... x_

* * *

**Urgency**

Mycroft had questioned his brother's 'pressing need' to be in Paris.

"This isn't a case," he had said, only to be refuted by his stubborn younger brother.  
"It's a matter of urgency, Mycroft," Sherlock had muttered impatiently before returning to his room.

Nevertheless, Mycroft had deemed his brother's venture harmless, and so acquiesced. As per Sherlock's request, travel arrangements were made for him to be in Paris and Mycroft had prepared the dossier of information Sherlock had wanted.

* * *

It had been a week and the conference in Paris, much to Sherlock's surprise, had been a pleasant one. The research discussed was riveting and he made a few mental notes to start on some new experiments back at Baker Street.

He had attended every lecture and every workshop at the medical conference. Or at least the ones that had a certain pathologist registered on them. Sherlock had gone incognito, of course. He did not want any attention drawn to himself, nor to disturb her work.

However, this evening, a dilemma presented itself.

"It's so unfortunate, I was about to give it such a glowing report," said Sherlock as he paced his hotel room, his mobile phone pressed to his ear.  
"There may be some brilliant minds out there, Sherlock," his brother said on the other end of the line, "But they are nonetheless, goldfish."  
"I cannot disagree," muttered the detective.  
"So, have you decided?" asked Mycroft patiently.  
"It is most fatuous…" remarked the detective.  
"Have you decided, Sherlock?" Mycroft repeated, slightly amused, "I mean, you've come all this way…"  
"Send me the details of this…_festivity_." Sherlock answered, muttering hastily.

Within the hour, Mycroft's personal courier arrived to deliver the evening's programme, an invite to said _festivity ,_and to Sherlock's surprise, a fancy-dress mask. It was a most lavish specimen, covering the top half of his face with elaborate carvings in its faux gold surface. The ribbons to attach it were a lush black velvet. A note was also attached to the mask, in what Sherlock recognised as his brother's script.

_I believe you're going to need this. - MH_

Sherlock smirked as he fiddled with the mask. He scrutinised the invitation and made the connection. A most fatuous activity indeed. Yet, the detective put on his sharpest suit, fixed the mask to his face and headed to the ballroom downstairs.

* * *

The music was spectacular and it helped quell the unpleasantness of being amongst such a massive crowd of people. Men and women were dressed to the nines but virtually unidentifiable due to the masquerade they were dressed up for. Sherlock could tell them apart of course, he recognised the German microbiologist right away from his unusual gait, possibly from a spot of plantar fasciitis. At the champagne bar was the young researcher from the University Medical Centre of Utrecht. He was engaged in a rather intense conversation with a young female professor from King's College. From their body language, Sherlock could see the evening was going to end very well for the both of them.

As he wandered the crowds, a little restless but keeping alert, he finally spotted the masked face he wanted to see. In an unassuming black lace dress was Molly Hooper of St Bartholomew's Hospital. Her mask was simple and obviously designed to compliment her dress. It was dark, rimmed with black velvet and constructed entirely of black lace. It was affixed with several wine-coloured organza ribbons that she had cleverly incorporated into her ponytail. She had a champagne cocktail in hand and was chatting cheerfully with a female counterpart Sherlock recognised as a member of the pathology team from a Japanese medical research centre.

Now that he had spotted her, Sherlock was at a loss. He stood there, in the middle of a crowd and just stared at her. Upon seeing her, he could not help but want to smile. With an inordinate amount of effort, he managed not to. There was a slight trip in the muscle in his chest. It was only then that Sherlock realised he had no clue as to why he had followed Molly all the way to Paris. He did not understand what had brought him here, standing in a sea of people, watching her smile and have a conversation.

The masquerade was not the one that was fatuous or foolish. His actions were.

Sherlock did not know how long he was stood there, watching her, piecing together his own puzzle as to why he was there. The medical conference was great, but not _that_ great. He loved to dance, but he never did. He loved a sharp suit but he only dressed sharply for himself. Why was he here?

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?" a voice said, slicing through his thoughts.

He was stunned. When had she found him?

"Are you okay?" she asked, "You were just standing there…"

There was a silence as her masked face scanned his own. Beneath the dark swirls of lace, Sherlock could see she was frowning slightly. She seemed worried. As answers failed to form in his head, Molly took a sudden step towards him, startling him.

"Has something happened? A murder? Terrorists" she asked urgently, tip-toeing to whisper beside his ear.  
"Uh, no." he managed to answer, at last.

She moved back and looked at him warily. Something was definitely up and it unnerved her.

"Sherlock, if someone recognises you and your cover is blown—"

Molly was interrupted when he yanked her close to him until the tip of her nose touched the fabric of his shirt.

"Waiter. Behind you. Canapé tray." he murmured into her ear, blinking a little too frantically.  
"Oh. Thank you." she answered, trying to manoeuvre herself politely out of his hold.

Sherlock felt her try to move back to where she was standing and let her. He did not enjoy letting her go, somehow, but he let her. He watched as she smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat softly.

"No murder, and no one's recognised me," he spoke suddenly.  
"Good, good," she said, nodding.  
"Yes, very good." he repeated.  
"So…" she eyed him warily, "Why are you here?"

The answer was at the edge of his consciousness. Frankly, the answer was right in front of him. This time, it was Sherlock who took a step towards her. He slipped one hand around her waist and pulled her gently towards him. His other hand reached for hers and wove his fingers in between hers. When he leaned his cheek against hers, he heard a soft gasp of surprise from her.

At first, Molly's body was tense, unsure of the unusual situation it was in. She felt the firm grip of the detective's arm wrap around her. She had not remembered how long and lean his fingers were until they held hers firmly. However, it jolted her memory as to how _warm_ he felt.

"Was it another waiter about to crash into me?" she whispered, amused.  
"No," he answered, laughing softly.  
"Why are you here, Sherlock?" she asked, her own arm snaking around his waist.  
"There was a pressing need," he said.

Molly removed herself again but let her hand linger in his. She looked up at him suspiciously again, but with a small smile on her lips.

"When was the last time you had it addressed?" she asked, fixing her eyes on him.  
"Just a little over two years ago," he replied. It was his turn to smile now.  
"Is it urgent? I _am _in the middle of a splendid evening…"  
"It is, rather," he said. There was a familiar glint in his eyes that did not go unnoticed.  
"Oh?" she smirked, slipping her fingers away from his grip.

There was a laugh when she saw the look in his eyes. The departure of her skin from his had not been appreciated as he tried to move towards her again. Molly's face glowed as she turned from him and began weaving through the crowd. Like his accelerating pulse, Sherlock's footsteps quickened as he followed the blur of her pony tail amongst the crowd. She was so petite and moved so swiftly. His throat went dry from trying to keep up.

When they reconvened, they were behind her closed door with no memory of the stifling crowd from before. Sherlock yanked his cumbersome mask off as Molly slid hers off slowly and smoothly. When he took in the full sight of her face, he could not help but beam. His hands, again surprising her with their warmth, rested themselves inside the crook of her neck. The rushing pulse he felt under her skin mirrored the ones inside his wrists.

They stopped and stared at each other. A current surged between the two of them as their memories flooded back. The warmth, the pressure, the synchrony— had it really been two years since?

She had no energy left to punish him anymore. The urgency had now spilled over into her as she moved to kiss him. There was an agony as she kissed him and he felt it. His reply to that was the desperation in his kiss, his way of telling her that he too felt the pain.

"Are you leaving again?" she asked, breaking the kiss and leaning her forehead against his chest. "I want none of this if you're leaving again."

Sherlock smiled to himself as he wrapped his arms around her. Her warmth, the pressure of her skin, their unspoken synchrony, all sent bolts of secretly cherished nostalgia through his chest. He took a deep breath to still the hammering in his heart. He could not leave again even if he had to.

"If I have to leave again," he whispered into her ear, "You'll have to leave with me."

She looked up, surprised. Those were unexpected words.

"Which means you are leaving." Molly rationalised, beginning to pry herself out of his grasp.  
"Not for a long time," he answered, holding her back and smirking, "I _have_ to be here."

Sherlock kissed her once more, the memory of their time before and the present softness of her skin colliding urgently in his body.

"There are far more pressing matters at hand," he murmured.


End file.
